


Can't Carry it with You

by Anonymous



Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Bad Guys Made Them Do It, Daddy Issues, Episode: s05e12 Safe House, Fuck Or Die, Homophobia, Infidelity, M/M, Mutual Non-Con, Non-Consensual Oral Sex, Oral Sex, Rape/Non-con Elements, Revenge, Season/Series 05, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-12
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:54:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22680565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: In an alternate ending to the safe house episode, Holt doesn't show up at the library. Seamus Murphy gets his hands on Jake and Kevin.
Relationships: Kevin Cozner/Jake Peralta, Kevin Cozner/Ray Holt
Comments: 26
Kudos: 203
Collections: anonymous





	1. Chapter 1

“Don’t worry, I’ll creep them right the hell out of here,” Jake says as he gets up and sneaks over toward the entrance.

Kevin remains where he is, his heart pounding in his chest, palms growing sweaty on the brittle pages of the book in front of him.

 _Coming here was a mistake_ , he thinks, _I should have listened to Raymond. I should never have disobeyed his orders._ Even thinking that last part makes his blood soar in rebellious contempt, however. He should not have to obey an order from his husband; he is not a dog.

Something moves behind him and Kevin whips around, just as pain explodes in the back of his head and everything goes black.

***

Kevin is sinking; he is under water; his limbs are lead.

“Kev!”

That is not his name.

“Kev!”

Nobody calls him that.

“Kev, please don’t be dead!”

With the exception of one very annoying person.

“Shut up, Peralta!” A different voice, male, thuggish. Kevin does not recognize it.

He is cold. His head and arms hurt. He is afraid.

The fear is overpowering, visceral, reminding him of the fear he felt as a child. It is nothing like the weight of anxiety bearing down on him over the past few weeks, the claustrophobic sense that the walls were closing in on him, slowly, his future with Raymond, once such a certainty, as solid and steady as the very earth beneath his feet, vanishing behind an iron curtain of Raymond’s making.

This is terror, merciless and urgent. His pulse is racing, his mouth is dry, he has to clench his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering. The very concept of a future, any kind of future, is slipping away from him.

Subtly, Kevin tries to move his arms. They are tied behind his back. His legs and back are stiff, the ground beneath him is hard and cold.

The voices he heard were floating somewhere above his head. Behind him, someone is breathing, regular, wet, raspy sounds.

Kevin wishes he wasn’t so afraid. He wishes he had faith in Raymond.

Footsteps approach him. Then someone grabs him by the ear, hard, as if he is a schoolboy caught cheating on his homework.

“Wake up, Kevin,” the man who told Peralta to be quiet says, “I’ve been dying to meet you.”

“Leave him alone! He’s a civilian; he’s got nothing to do with this!” Peralta sounds desperate.

“Yeah well, life’s not fair, is it. And I made a promise to Holt.”

The pain in his ear is searing, the other man is pulling hard, twisting it. He is so close to him, Kevin can feel the man’s breath on his face when he speaks. It smells like menthol cigarettes. Kevin knows he will hate this smell for the rest of his life, which might be a very short time.

He cracks his eyes open. Neon spots dance in his field of vision. His breath hitches in his throat. In moments like this, the hero is supposed to crack wise to show how unafraid he is. Kevin has spent weeks watching the mindless formulaic drivel Jake considers masterpieces, but he cannot think of anything to say. 

“Let him go, Murphy,” Jake pleads behind him, “He’s done nothing. He’s just some guy. I’m a cop, okay? You hate cops, so kill me.”

“Shut your mouth, Peralta, don’t make me say it again. He’s Holt’s husband, and that’s why he’s gonna suffer and die.” As the man, Seamus Murphy, leans closer, Kevin sucks in a quivering breath. The world narrows to Murphy’s dark, malevolent eyes. His tone is a mockery of gentleness. “I want you to understand this, Kevin, this is happening because of your husband. He messed with my family. He humiliated me, and that’s why you’re going to die. I gave him a choice, and this is what he picked.”

Kevin is terrified, but the argument Murphy makes is pathetic. He swallows the lump in his throat and forces himself to return Murphy’s inhuman stare.

“No, that is not true,” he says, voice gravelly. His throat hurts when he speaks, but he must say this. It is vital. “The reason why this is happening is because you are a sociopathic narcissist, who refuses to adhere to the rules established by society.”

Murphy looks surprised now and so Kevin soldiers on.

“You are an agent of chaos and corruption, ruthless, willing to harm others for your benefit. Men like you have existed since the dawn of time and it takes men like my husband to stand up to them and protect their communities.” His voice cracks on ʻmy husbandʼ. It took them so many years to earn this title; Kevin will never get tired of calling Raymond his husband. He will never take it for granted. “My husband is brave and noble, and I could not be prouder of him. You, on the other hand,” Kevin pauses for air, remembering something Jake taught him during one of his pointless popular culture lessons, “are the very definition of a ʻpissing babyʼ.”

“Pissbaby,” Jake whispers, “you know what, close enough.”

“But nothing you say or do can sully the love I have for Raymond Holt.”

Kevin can hear Jake sniffling.

He stares into Murphy’s eyes. The criminal looks irritated, mildly irritated, his expression that of a man inconvenienced by minor roadwork on his commute.

“Gotta give it to you, Professor, you’ve got quite a way with words,” Murphy drawls. He releases Kevin’s ear abruptly, causing Kevin, who has been resisting his painful pulling throughout, to smack his head hard on the ground.

“Regular silver tongue in his head, eh?” Murphy is addressing someone behind him. Kevin wants to crane his neck to see, but he hurts and he’s too weak and out of breath. “Maybe we can put that to some good use.”

Murphy paces through his field of vision, hands behind his back.

“Here’s what I’m thinking: You’re gonna die a painful death, okay, that’s a given, but that nice speech you gave just now, we don’t want that to go to waste, do we? Plus, I want your husband to know exactly what happened to you. You know what they say: a mutilated corpse can only tell you so much. You kinda had to be there.”

“Now,” he gestures, open palm extending toward Jake, “Detective Peralta here has a big mouth and he loves running it. So, I’m thinking, he’s the perfect audience.”

Kevin gulps. His throat is tight, almost too tight to breathe. It is obvious where this is going, to Jake and him both.

Behind him, Jake audibly struggles against his restraints. “No, nononono, no, don’t—”

“Shut it,” Murphy commands. “I’ll kill you,” he says to Kevin, “but I’ll let him live. That’s gonna be my parting gift to you, Peralta, all these wonderful memories for you to share with Holt when he gets here.”

“No,” Jake moans, “no, don’t do that. Kill _me_. I took him to the library. I… I did this. This is my fault.”

“And I’ve got another gift for you, Peralta. You’re gonna put that mouth of yours to work, Professor.” Murphy grins down at him and winks. “I’m taking you up on that challenge you issued back there. Let’s see if we can’t sully that love you have for your husband.”

“The last thing you’re gonna do before you die is suck this prick’s cock.”

Kevin’s stomach lurches violently, blood pounding in his ears. He cannot fathom the words he has just heard. This cannot be. For once, Peralta is silent as well.

Kevin is grabbed from behind, fingers digging painfully into his arms. “No,” he gasps, even as the second man drags him to his feet. He doesn’t have the strength to stand on his own, but the other man is holding him steady in his iron grip.

“I will not do that. You cannot make me do that,” Kevin says. If he is to die, it will not be like this. He will not be humiliated further. He sets his jaw, pressing his lips together.

“Here’s the thing,” Murphy says as he reaches under his jacket and pulls out a gun, “I can make you do a lot of things, Kevin. But you’re right, you do have a choice here.” He points the gun behind Kevin and Kevin turns his head to see Jake tied to a chair. When Jake’s eyes meet his, Jake vehemently shakes his head.

“If you don’t suck his cock, I shoot him right now.” Grinning, Murphy lowers his aim, “Two bullets, one in his dick, one in his brain, in that order. Then I kill you, nice and slow. But if you do what I told you to do, I’ll let him live.”

“Why should I believe that?” Kevin asks, voice shaking.

“I have no reason to kill him. I told you, I love the idea of him waiting here for your husband with your corpse. It’s nice and dramatic. And one more witness won’t matter. I know they’ve been building a case against me. With or without him they have enough by now to send me away for good, but they’ll have to find me first, so…” Murphy shrugs nonchalantly, “Make your choice, Kevin.”

Is there a third option, Kevin wonders, could he go down fighting at least?

But Murphy has a gun; he would shoot Kevin in a second, and then, to keep his word, he would kill Jacob.

Refusing has a one hundred percent probability of resulting in their deaths within the next few minutes.

Trying to fight has a ninety-nine percent chance of resulting in grave injury and subsequently death within the next few seconds.

Doing the unspeakable has at least a fifty percent chance of Jake surviving this ordeal, a hundred percent chance, if Murphy is to be believed. It will also buy them a few minutes of time and change their positions relative to one another, which might give them an opportunity to fight back or escape. 

“I will do it,” Kevin says.

“Smart choice.” Murphy gestures to his henchman and Kevin is dragged over to Jake and pushed to his knees. He can’t find it within himself to look Jacob in the eye, so he stares at his crotch, a feeling of impending doom twisting his gut. This is the most rational decision, he tells himself. He has to do this.

“Kev…” Jake says softly. “I’m so sorry. Don’t—”

“I’ll need my hands,” Kevin says, ignoring Jake. His eyes are glued to the bunched-up fabric of Jake’s stained grey leisure trousers.

“Yeah, no, nice try, Professor, but you’re not giving him a handjob and I’m sure Peralta doesn’t expect anything too fancy here.”

Kevin makes the mistake of glancing up to see Jake staring down at him, completely horrified. He averts his eyes.

“But how am I supposed to…,” he nods vaguely at Jacob’s covered up genitalia.

Murphy clicks his tongue in annoyance. “Use your mouth,” he says, “and hurry the fuck up.”

Kevin leans in. His heart is pounding. He notices that there is an odor to the trousers. Musty. He tries very hard not to think about Raymond and what he would say if he could see this. It does not bear contemplating.

Kevin clamps his mouth around some fabric – and that alone is almost enough to make him gag –and pulls, sort of away from Jake and down. Jacob, however, is pressing himself into his chair, in an effort – whether consciously or unconsciously – to put as much distance between himself and Kevin as possible, which impedes Kevin’s attempt to pull down his trousers.

He has no choice then but to look up at Jake, to try and communicate with his eyes that Jake needs to help him. Jake’s eyes are wide and wet, his lips are trembling. He draws in a shaky breath and closes them. Then, he lifts his hips slightly, just enough for Kevin to pull his pants down with some effort.

Dragging his face down the top of Jake’s thighs, fabric clenched between his teeth, leaves Kevin breathless. He was lucky enough to get the boxers – adorned with some sort of cartoon monstrosity, a rattled looking dog/wolf creature, holding up a sign reading _yikes!_ in capital letters – in the same movement. He stares at it, bunched around the detective’s bare upper thighs. _Yikes_ is a strange word. He would like to look up its etymology.

“This is pathetic, come on, Princess, get a move on!”

Kevin bristles at _princess_ while the henchman next to him chuckles.

“Shut up,” Peralta mumbles, “it’s cold in here.”

Kevin glances up. Peralta’s penis is just that, a penis. There is nothing special about it, except for the wave of dread that washes over Kevin when he thinks about what he has to do with it. He does not want to.

He looks over his shoulder and sees that Murphy is staring at him, gun still trained on Jake.

“Second thoughts?” he asks. “Not your thing, huh? You like ‘em bigger and blacker?”

Kevin’s stomach clenches. He hates this – this horrible insinuation that Raymond is some kind of fetish for him. It is insulting and disgusting.

He leans in again, wetting his lips. Jake’s eyes are screwed shut, his teeth are clenched, arms straining against his bonds.

Kevin thinks about his time as a student, about his first few crushes. Superficially at least, Jacob might resemble those boys. It is better to think about them than Raymond.

Jacob flinches when Kevin takes him in his mouth.

He’s so soft and dry. Kevin can’t remember the last time he had a flaccid penis in his mouth. This is not working, he thinks. It is the most humiliating thing he has done in his life, but if it can save at least one of their lives…

“Get him hard and get him to come, or he dies,” Murphy says suddenly, ripping through the blank white sheet his mind has become.

Shocked, Kevin pulls back, Jake’s penis slips out of his mouth.

“That was not the agreement,” he protests.

“Yeah, well, I make the rules. This is boring me. It’s not a blowjob if he never gets it up. I mean, come on, Sweetheart, you’ve gotta be able to do better than that. Five minutes, that’s all you get, make it count.”

“Sorry, sorry,” Jacob mumbles, “God, I’m so sorry.”

Kevin blinks the wetness from his eyes. His legs are shaky, but he manages to get one foot under him and push himself up a little higher, until his face is level with Jake’s. Jake’s eyes are wide; there are tear tracks on his cheeks. Kevin leans in and gives him a kiss, a chaste one, on his lips, their ridiculous fake mustaches clashing.

“It’s okay, Jake,” he whispers so only Jake can hear, hating himself for what he is about to do. “It’s okay, my boy.”

It’s not as difficult after. Kevin ignores the way Murphy and his henchman whistle through their teeth. What does their ridicule mean at this point? Nothing.

When he takes Jake into his mouth a second time, Jake exhales audibly. Kevin senses the tension draining from his body. He is relaxing, or at least trying to do so. This time, there is a response to Kevin’s ministrations. Jake grows hard within moments. Peralta’s buttons are so easy to push, Kevin thinks grimly. He moves slowly and gently and Jake’s thighs tremble against his cheek. Jake _is_ smaller than Raymond, which does make it easier. 

Kevin closes his eyes and tries to forget where he is. The ground is hard under his knees, there’s pressure on his lower back from bending over at this odd angle. He buries his nose in Peralta’s abdomen, taking him as deep as he can until he can barely breathe anymore. His heart is still pounding, so much that his chest hurts.

He pulls back, making an obscene wet noise. What does it matter? Nothing matters.

“Man, this gay shit is nasty as fuck,” the henchman says, voice filled with derision.

Kevin ignores him. He listens for Peralta’s raspy breathing, irregular and speeding up. That’s good, it means this will be over soon. He wants this to be over, Kevin thinks. Although he also wishes he could do this for Raymond one more time. Touch him, feel him, breathe him in.

Jake’s skin tastes salty when Kevin licks the length of him, letting some saliva escape his lips. This is messy, sloppy, loud. Shameful. He slurps Jake’s erection into his mouth again, a glutton for punishment, feeding the seed of self-loathing planted by his parents. The years with Raymond have not managed to rub it out fully, and if they haven’t, then nothing ever will.

A small sound escapes Jake’s lips when Kevin swallows him down. Jake’s breath hitches.

“Ah, no…” he groans. “Kev…”

“What the--?” Murphy shouts, just as Jake’s hips jerk. Kevin is not prepared for his thrust, he swallows reflexively and chokes on Peralta’s bitter semen. Coughing and gagging, Kevin jerks away from Jake and goes down.

Tires squeal and the henchman shouts, “It’s the fucking cops!”

Something clatters, a shot rings out.

Kevin cringes on the ground, so panicked, so sure that death is imminent, his whole body feels as though it is about to shut down. Jake’s chair has toppled over. For a second, Kevin knows he’s dead, he’s been shot. But no, Jake is struggling to sit up, somehow, he has freed his arms – was he working on that the whole time?

“NYPD, drop your weapon!”

Kevin pulls himself together enough to roll onto his side, so he can see what is happening.

Murphy has his hands behind his head, his face contorted into a furious grimace. A woman in a leather jacket stalks toward him, gun in one hand, handcuffs in the other. Her head is a mass of blond curls.

“Charles, there was another guy, roughly six foot, slim, dark hair, red shirt, he ran out through there,” shouts Jake.

Boyle runs past. “Captain’s on his way,” he tells Kevin, who nods dumbly, and moves on to Peralta, whose left leg still seems to be tied to the chair. “You okay, Jake?”

“I’m fine, go!”

It’s chaos after that. Sirens are wailing, police cars are pulling up outside, bringing a swarm of uniformed officers. As they drag Murphy away, the blond woman kneels down next to Kevin and touches his shoulder.

“You alright? Ambulance is outside.”

He stares up at her, not fully comprehending, then it hits him, suddenly and forcefully, that he knows her, that this is Detective Diaz just with very different hair and makeup. That the knife in her hand is not meant to be threatening, and yet he still recoils from the glinting blade.

“It’s okay,” she says, her voice much gentler than usual, “let me get that for you.” Her hand is warm on his forearm as the blade slips cold between his wrists. She slices the rope in one careful movement. 

“Thank you,” Kevin says, voice barely above a whisper, and she nods and pulls his now free arm over her shoulder.

“Let’s get you out of here.”

She hoists him up quite easily and together they stagger out into the sunlight, which is too bright and makes Kevin squint.

“Where is Raymond?” he asks.

“Captain’s coming. He nearly lost his mind when you weren’t at the safe house.”

He is not sure if that last sentence is meant to reassure him. If anything, it makes him realize how sick he is feeling. Nauseous and strangely detached, as though he is watching everything from a great distance. Disoriented, too. He has no idea where he is, or what time it might be. All he knows is that he wants to go home and that the detective smells like an entire hair salon.

As soon as she sees them, Rosa hands him off to the EMTs, who sit him down to ask him questions and shine a light in his eyes. Kevin asks them for some water and is provided a half-full paper cup. He sips, lets the liquid pool in his mouth and finds himself momentarily unable to swallow. He coughs and spits it on the ground like some animal. The taste is still in his mouth. Hating himself, Kevin downs the rest of the water and clamps his mouth shut to keep from vomiting.

As one of the EMTs gingerly turns Kevin’s head to inspect the bruised side of his face, Kevin catches sight of Peralta hovering not too far from them. He is no longer wearing his fake mustache, which reminds Kevin to peel off his own and let it drop into the dirt. Jake averts his eyes as soon as he catches Kevin looking at him.

His face hot with shame, Kevin drops his gaze to stare at his feet. His hands clench into fists, he rubs them angrily into the tops of his thighs.

“You’re not concussed,” the EMT informs him and when Kevin raises his eyes to thank the man, he catches sight of a familiar figure all but running across the lot. His heart constricts. Raymond has not seen him yet, in fact, he is looking around frantically, eyes scanning his surroundings.

“Captain,” Boyle shouts somewhere to Kevin’s left and Kevin suddenly has the irrational urge to crawl into a corner and hide.

Boyle must have pointed him out because Raymond’s head jerks in his direction, his eyes widening a fraction as his gaze lands on Kevin. 

In his haste to close the distance between them, Raymond nearly trips over one of the EMTs and does not even bother to apologize properly. The split second during which Raymond towers over him is one of the most confusing moments of Kevin’s life. He does not know what to do, he does not know what Raymond will do and he certainly does not know what he is feeling. He wants to apologize, but before he has any chance to do so, Raymond is upon him, crushing him in a tight embrace.

This is not something they ever do in public. So, Kevin is beyond startled when his husband suddenly clings to him. He stiffens in Raymond’s arms, even as Raymond cups the back of his neck, whispering, “Kevin, I thought you were dead.”, his voice choked with tears.

_I can’t hear you, Kevin, you’re dead._

In a way, this sentence had set the tone for the entire duration of his stay in the safe house.

Kevin closes his eyes and forces himself to relax into the touch. He brings up his arms, pats Raymond’s back awkwardly and breathes in his smell – his aftershave, sandalwood, a hint of sweat.

“We are making a scene, Raymond,” Kevin says after a few seconds have ticked by and Raymond has failed to let go of him.

Raymond clears his throat and straightens. His hands, however, settle on Kevin’s shoulders.

“Are you injured?” he asks, examining him with a serious expression on his face. It makes Kevin feel like he is a case to be cracked, a feeling he detests; it makes his heartbeat quicken with the fear that he will actually crack under his husband’s scrutiny. Raymond is a brilliant detective. Kevin has never really tried to keep anything from him after his first attempt at throwing a surprise party in Raymond’s honor.

“No,” he replies, unable to meet Raymond’s eyes.

“Good.” Raymond glances over his shoulder then, at his squad, Diaz, Boyle and Peralta, who are standing next to a black van some distance from them. It is painfully obvious that he wants to check in with them but feels obligated to stay with Kevin.

“You should go and talk to them. It is your job, after all,” Kevin says, not without guilt. He should not want Raymond to leave right now, but he does.

Briefly, Raymond’s grip around his shoulders tightens. “Will you be alright?”

“Yes, I’ll be fine. I think they are waiting for you.”

“I’ll only be a few minutes. I love you, Kevin.”

Before he lets go, Kevin reaches up and grasps Raymond’s right hand, squeezing it once.

“I love you as well, Raymond,” he says, hearing the tell-tale tremor in his own voice.

As he watches his husband walk away from him, Kevin can’t help but feel like a traitor.


	2. Chapter 2

As soon as Jake sees Holt walking towards them, he knows he’s in trouble. He needs to remove himself from this situation. His hands are shaking, so he stuffs them into the pockets of his grimy pervert-sweatpants.

“Oh, he’s going to kill you,” Rosa says next to him, her voice low and full of dark promise. And she doesn’t even know the full story. No one does, except for Murphy, his thug and Kevin. Kevin, who was just talking to Holt.

“Why? This isn’t Jake’s fault, Rosa, Seamus Murphy—” Charles’ fervent defense of him is interrupted when Holt strides past Boyle, straight to Jake.

“What were you doing, Peralta?” he asks, debunkubating – or whatever Kevin called it that time –super-hard, “You brought my husband to a public place? You nearly cost him his life!”

Jake swallows. He’s got no excuse for anything that happened today, plus his brain still feels like mush. All he can think of is Kevin, on his knees in front of him.

Rosa’s got it right, Holt is going to kill him. He probably should.

Jake’s back is to the van; there’s nowhere for him to go. All he can do is stand there and endure Holt’s fury, which is terrifying.

“I am deeply disappointed in you, Peralta,” Holt snarls, baring his teeth the way he does when he’s really, really angry. “You are suspended for the rest of the week; I don’t want to see your face at the precinct.”

“With all due respect, sir,” Charles pipes up, putting himself in the line of fire for Jake’s sake, “we’ve arrested Murphy and his accomplice. That’s a major success, and it’s all thanks to Jake.”

Holt turns to Charles. They all hold their breaths, waiting for the teardown. But he says nothing, he just stares at Charles in complete silence until after a few seconds, a soft whimper escapes Boyle’s lips.

“I’m sorry, sir, I shouldn’t have said anything,” Boyle grovels. So much for loyalty.

Jake flinches when he notices Kevin behind the captain. He’s walking closer.

“No, you should not have said anything,” Holt says and turns back to Jake, narrowing his eyes. He’s got no idea that his husband is pretty much right behind him now, despite Rosa and Charles also looking past him at Kevin’s stony face. “Detective, what you have done is unforgivable,” the captain finishes and that’s when Kevin decides to speak up.

“Am I to be punished as well, Raymond?” he asks, furrowing his brow.

Holt visibly startles. He turns around slowly. “Kevin?”

“Going to the library was my idea. Detective Peralta only chose to accompany me because I asked him to do so.”

Jake notices that he’s not the only one trying to inch away from this conversation. Rosa is doing her best to blend into the background, though her hair makes that impossible, Charles is creeping toward him, looking for shelter.

“Kevin, you are a civilian, it was never your decision to make. Peralta was responsible for your safety; his bad judgement very nearly resulted in your death.” Holt lays out the painful facts in his trademark monotone, but every word seems to hit Kevin like a punch in the gut. Looking at him is threatening to make Jake physically ill, and yet he can’t bring himself to tear his eyes away.

“You’re right, Raymond,” Kevin says bitterly. “During these past nine weeks, I have not made a single decision. I am tired. I want to leave.” He clenches his jaw, his lips forming a thin, pale line. The side of his face is a blotchy red that will no doubt turn purple in a couple of hours. Jake doesn’t want to think about how Kevin’s mouth and cheek felt against his skin, so he really, really doesn’t.

He glances at the captain, who looks chastised but nods. “We should have this conversation at home. Detectives, with the exception of Peralta,” he says, glaring at Jake who can only just keep himself from flinching, “I will see you tomorrow.”

With that, they walk away, side by side and when he notices how Holt reaches for Kevin – to put a hand on his arm, lightly, and Kevin elegantly slips away, taking a tiny step to the right, a knife twists in Jake’s gut.

As soon as they’re out of earshot, Charles lets out a long sigh of relief. “Phew, that was intense! You okay, Jakey?”

“Yeah,” Jake says, “yeah, I’m okay.”

It’s not really true. He needs to see Amy; he just needs to see her, right now.

***

“Peraltiago reunion,” Charles gushes, when Jake finally gets to wrap his arms around his fiancée, “I’ll take a picture!”

“Charles,” groans Amy, hiding her face in Jake’s shoulder.

It feels so good to have her back, better than anything, but Jake can’t enjoy it the way he should because the events of the day hang over him like a… what did Holt say that one time? Damascus sword? That doesn’t sound completely right. Kevin would know, Jake thinks guiltily, but then so would Ames. He can’t ask her though, not yet, at least.

He’s going to tell her – that was never in question – he just doesn’t know how. How is Kevin going to tell Holt? Kevin is a lot smarter than Jake, so he’ll probably figure out the best way to do it. Maybe he should wait and talk to Kevin first. Wait, what is he thinking? How is he going to talk to Kevin ever again after what happened?

And he’s been clinging to Amy for way too long now. It’s like he’s forgotten how to let go.

“Babe, are you okay?” Amy asks, looking up at him with her beautiful brown eyes. Amy has cartoon deer eyes. They are large and shiny and so soft Jake just wants to fall into them.

Jake glances up, the squad welcome party has moved on. He’s had his nod from Rosa, the shoulder slap from the Sarge that almost sent him flying, the nonsensical “Did you bring us something?” from Hitchcock and Scully and Gina announcing that she’s a super cop who should totally be allowed to have a gun, just sayin’, even Charles has stopped hovering and gone to his desk to start writing arrest reports, probably in fear of Holt. So they’re good; they’re clear and he can be honest.

“It was bad, Amy,” he whispers, “it was real bad.”

Amy looks up at him, startled, maybe hoping for a follow up joke to reassure her that Jake’s still Jake, but all he can give her is a shaky sigh and an “I love you so much.”

“I love you too. We’ll talk when I get home, okay?” Amy says. She kisses him quickly before pulling away and Jake goes to fill out the forms and hand in his gun and badge for a week.

Deep down, he’s kind of relieved he won’t have to see Holt until after he’s had some time to come to terms with this.

***

When he gets home, Jake has to suppress the urge to hug all the furniture, the throw pillows, the bed, even Amy’s grandma knickknacks. He can’t look at his half-empty DVD shelf, though, because it reminds him of Kevin. Stupid Kevin with his stupidly huge brain, who could literally quote the entire dialogue of any given Nic Cage movie after watching it once.

Thinking about Kevin is painful. It’s confusing because it makes something coil in his abdomen, the memory of Kevin’s blue eyes looking up at him. Jake pushes all of that away. It’s over now.

He goes to take a shower, a long one, during which he has trouble looking down his naked body. For the first time in his life, he can’t really look at himself because when he does, he starts thinking about Kevin and all the guilt and shame rise up in these hot tendrils of emotions that wrap around him and send shivers down his spine. He hates how this feels, tight and suffocating but also disturbingly thrilling. It’s bad, so bad that Jake has to turn the temperature of the water down to freezing cold.

He rests his head against the tiles and lets the water pelt him, hating himself more with every drop.

***

Amy wants to talk as soon as she steps through the door, but Jake can’t, not right away, not in the living-room or the kitchen between putting away the groceries Amy picked up and making dinner.

“Later,” he tells her, “please?”

“Okay, sure, whatever you need.” Amy can say that and not sound passive-aggressive because she really isn’t. She’s sweet and understanding and patient despite how it’s clearly eating at her, the knowing something is wrong, but the not knowing what. Despite the, you know, obvious, having been separated for so long again, being locked up in a small place, seeing the same things every day in a situation not unlike the pretty bad one he doesn’t like thinking about. At least this time, his figurative cellmate wasn’t a cannibal – though Jake sometimes misses Caleb because apart from the whole snacking on gullible children thing – huge caveat, Jake has to admit – Caleb was actually a pretty good guy.

Yeah, maybe Jake is a little fucked up.

***

He makes her wait until they’re in bed, curled up together, Amy’s head resting on his chest, Amy’s arm wrapped around his waist. The only light is coming from the lamp on the bedside table on Amy’s side, casting its gentle yellow glow across them. Jake strokes Amy’s cheek, strands of her hair tickling his fingertips. She’s tense but trying not to be and he knows he’s already made her wait too long. It’s cruel, so he starts talking, beginning with the ʻvicious fightʼ between Holt and Kevin about the library, then the follow-up with Kevin’s thinly veiled threat. He tells her how afraid he was that Kevin would end up leaving Holt, that it would be Jake’s fault somehow, that he just couldn’t bear the thought of Holt and Kevin getting a divorce.

“So I took him to the library,” Jake says, the bitter taste of guilt in his mouth. “And that’s where Murphy and his goon caught us. They knocked out Kevin and held me at gunpoint.”

Amy kind of knew this part already, but it’s easier to go chronologically.

What’s coming up now, that’s the hard part.

Jake pauses. He’s not really sure how to get through it.

“They brought you to the abandoned warehouse,” Amy prods gently after a few moments.

“Yeah, they tied me to a chair. Kevin, they just threw him on the ground. They tied up his hands, but he was injured and unconscious anyway.”

“Poor Kevin,” Amy says and Jake swallows.

Then he tells her about Murphy pacing around until Kevin woke up, how he told Kevin he would kill him slowly and let Jake live, so he could give Holt the details later. Amy stiffens in his arms and whispers, “God.”

Jake wants to stop. He really doesn’t want to get into the next part. Because this was bad enough, right? It was bad, but okay in the end because they got out. It’s not the whole story though, no matter how much Jake wishes it was.

So, he keeps talking, haltingly, about what Murphy said next, and Amy sucks in a breath and freezes.

“And so Kevin did it,” Jake finishes in a rush now, wanting this to be over.

Amy is staring at him, wide-eyed, the hand that was stroking his chest now clutching his t-shirt in a tight fist.

“What,” she breathes.

“He did it,” Jake repeats, “you know, what Murphy said, he just…” He thinks about how he might say it, then realizes that he really can’t go into detail. There’s no way. “Did it,” he finishes lamely. “Because Murphy said he’d shoot me if he didn’t.” He would have too, there’s no doubt about that.

“Oh my God,” Amy says. “Oh, Jake.” Tears are shining in her eyes. She bites her lip. “I’m so sorry.”

“I’m fine,” Jake says softly. He rolls on his side, gently shifting her, so they are facing each other, and wraps his arms around her. “I’m here. It’s okay. It was wrong and weird and… I don’t know… awful, but we got out alive, that’s what matters, right?” That’s got to be what matters.

“I’m just…” A tear slides down Amy’s cheek and Jake catches it, wiping the moisture off her soft skin with the pad of his thumb. “I can’t believe this happened to you. I can’t believe anyone would do this. I’m so sorry.”

It’s so weird to see her this heartbroken, this sad, on his behalf, when Jake has spent all this time telling himself it was no big deal. It was weird and embarrassing but nothing major, nothing that would matter in the long run. They’re not dead or maimed or anything, just bruised, and bruises fade pretty quickly. In a couple of weeks all physical evidence of this ever happening will be gone.

They’re quiet for a little while. Jake keeps caressing Amy’s cheek. He could stare into her eyes for hours, except it’s hard when she’s looking so sad. She sniffles, one hand still clutching at his shirt as though she’s afraid he’ll vanish if she lets go.

“What was it like?” she asks suddenly, only to bite her lip and shake her head, “I’m sorry, I mean, I just—You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to. I just can’t imagine…” Her eyebrows furrow. “What exactly did he do? Did he just…? I mean… were you…?”

Jake was afraid she’d ask something like this. He doesn’t really want to get into it, but he made up his mind to be completely honest with Amy, always. He can’t start making exceptions already – before they’re even married! – just because it’s difficult.

He takes a deep breath. “At first he just, you know, took it in his mouth, but then Murphy got mad and told him he’d have to really do it or it wouldn’t count. That—that he’d—that I, you know. He was pointing the gun at me the whole time. He said, you have five minutes, if it’s not done by then, I’ll shoot you both.”

Amy looks so horrified now, like she might actually be sick. He can tell she regrets asking, but somehow, at the same time, he doesn’t regret telling her. It’s good that she knows, he can trust her with this; he can trust her with anything.

“Kevin kissed me,” he says, because this is kind of it, the whole point, the thing that destroyed him and saved him at the same time. “He looked into my eyes and he said it was going to be okay and he kissed me. Like he loved me.” This is embarrassing and heart-wrenching and Jake feels so awkward saying it. “He protected me.” Like a dad would – except, well, no, not like a dad would, but also maybe yeah… in the sense that he did something he would never do, that he humiliated himself, just to save Jake.

Amy’s breath trembles across his lips. “I wish I could have protected you,” she whispers, “I wish we’d found you sooner. I’m so sorry that we didn’t.”

“It’s not your fault, Ames.”

She looks into his eyes, really looks into them, drawing her hands up to his shoulders. “It’s not yours either. You know that, right?”

“I shouldn’t have taken him to the library,” Jake says miserably.

Amy shakes her head. “There are so many things we could have done differently. I could have accepted Murphy’s offer. He came to _me_ first. If I had said yes back then, Holt would never have had anything to do with him. Look, we can’t change the past. I’m just glad you’re here now. I could have lost you today.”

Jake doesn’t want to think about what might have happened if Amy had been involved with Murphy because of him. Whichever way you look at it, it still all started with him and Rosa getting themselves convicted of those bank robberies – Not. Your. Fault. Amy has told him this so many times, but the guilt won’t go away.

The one person who really had nothing to do with anything, who never signed up for any of this, is Kevin. All he did was marry Holt and be a good husband and this is what he got in return? Jake has seen a ton of horrible stuff, enough of the unfairness of the world to last him several lifetimes – it comes with the job – but still, it’s hard to swallow.

 _Hard to swallow,_ he thinks, _title of our sex tape._

Sometimes, Jake really hates his brain.

***

Things are bad at the precinct. Amy is kind of trying to gloss over this, but Jake can tell. Besides, she’s still Amy, so she doesn’t actually lie to him.

“Oh, Captain Holt is just in a bad mood,” she says when she gets home on the third day of Jake’s suspension, looking harried.

“Do you think Kevin told him? I mean he’s got to by now.” Jake spends way too much time thinking about this, trying to imagine how that conversation would go and what Holt is going to say when he returns to duty. He cares about Holt, deeply, and Holt cared about him too. The relationship he built with the captain is one of the most important relationships in his life. He can’t bear the thought of losing it.

“Honestly? I have no idea. I can’t ask him. Plus, he barely talks to anyone at the moment. He only comes out of his office to yell.” Amy grimaces. “I’m sorry, babe.

She tries to distract him after that with food and tv and her bombastic butt. It kind of works. Truth be told, Jake is nervous about sex, but Amy is Amy, meaning she’s understanding and sweet and he can talk to her. Plus, nothing about her body could possibly remind him of Kevin. Though, there is a tiny, terrible part of him that conjures up Kevin saying, “It’s okay, my boy.” when Jake’s lying in bed alone in the morning after Amy has gone to work. Jake doesn’t think about it.

***

When Amy comes home on day six of his suspension, he can tell instantly that something awful has happened, even before she opens her mouth. She looks crushed and Jake fears the worst, that someone has been killed or injured, and he jumps up from the couch and runs over to her.

“What’s wrong?”

Amy draws in a deep breath. “Babe,” she says as she wraps her arms around him, stroking his back soothingly, “I don’t really know what happened, but Kevin left Captain Holt.”

It’s the craziest combination of words Jake has ever heard come out of anyone’s mouth. His brain can’t even process it. “What? Why? How? When? What?”

“I don’t know. All I know is that the captain is devastated. I mean, his entire morning briefing was ʻI must hereby inform you that my husband, Professor Kevin Cozner Phd., has left me last night. This concludes today’s briefing. I will now withdraw into my office and dedicate myself entirely to the mind-numbing act of greasing the wheels of bureaucracy, since that is all I have left in my life. Dismissed.ʼ”

“Cool,” Jake breathes, his chest tight with anxiety. “Cool, cool, cool, cool, no doubt, no doubt, okay, cool.” One thought bursts through his breakdown loop, though. Jake looks at Amy beseechingly and exclaims, “But Kevin real smart!”


	3. Chapter 3

In the car – one of the unmarked police cars Raymond will have to return after taking him home – they’re quiet. Kevin sits in the passenger seat, hands resting on his thighs, head turned to stare out of the window. Usually, he loves the silences, they are comfortable and warm, filled with Raymond’s calm presence beside him.

Today, however, it is deeply uncomfortable. He can feel Raymond struggle to come up with something to say, can feel his husband’s guilty glances whenever they have to stop at a light. As they crawl through traffic, Kevin tries to forget what happened. _It’s over_ , he tells himself sternly, _no use dwelling on it._ And yet he cannot seem to get that horrible taste out of his mouth, cannot stop seeing the grin on Murphy’s face whenever he closes his eyes. This won’t do.

When they pull up at their house, Kevin knows he should feel such relief to finally come home after the ordeal, but he is oddly numb, his heart empty except for a vague sense of dread. He stays in his seat a little too long; Raymond gets out of the car and opens the door for him before he has composed himself enough to undo his seatbelt.

Raymond waits for him patiently, and yet Kevin feels pressured by his presence alone. It’s obvious that his husband wants to be reassured their relationship is intact – after all, the last conversation they had ended with Kevin threatening divorce. Kevin has no reassurance to give, however, he has never felt less sure of the world and his place in it than he does now – except perhaps for the day his father learned he had kissed a boy at school and told him he would rather his son were dead than queer.

He never told Raymond this, only made vague reference to his parents’ disapproval of his ʻlifestyleʼ. Later, Raymond experienced said disapproval firsthand, and for decades that, as they say, was that.

Peralta is lucky he is straight, Kevin thinks, one can only imagine what his desperation for a father figure might have wrought, were he gay.

On some level, Kevin has always been almost envious of Raymond for losing his father so early in his life. Naturally, he has never voiced this grotesque thought. Still, Raymond never had to see his own father look at him with the anger and revulsion Kevin’s father’s eyes held for him when he learned Kevin was homosexual.

An odd memory resurfaces. One Halloween a few years ago, Kevin visited Raymond at the precinct to bring him lunch. When he encountered his husband, Raymond’s eyes were shining with the manic Halloween Heist gleam Kevin has since come to dread. Back then, it was still new, and Kevin did not understand what it meant. Raymond, quickly and gleefully, informed him of the bet he had made with Peralta. _And listen to this,_ he’d said, grinning diabolically, _I told him your father gave me the watch on his deathbed, and he believed it. You should have seen his face, Kevin! Priceless! Very much unlike this watch!_

Kevin has contemplated this episode frequently since its occurrence. His father, still very much alive, has never given Raymond anything. For decades, he refused to even see him. Nowadays, Kevin and Raymond are occasionally invited to his parents’ home, though only ever alongside Martin and his family, and still his father will do his darndest to avoid addressing Raymond directly.

It was – continues to be – heartbreaking to him that Raymond would make up this watch-anecdote as it spoke to him of some unvoiced desire on his husband’s part to have a meaningful relationship with his father, something Kevin knows is impossible.

Although perhaps he is simply projecting his own disappointment on Raymond.

While Kevin was lost in thought, Raymond has steered him to the front door. He takes his hand off Kevin’s elbow to unlock it and as the key slides into the lock, Cheddar’s excited barking can be heard from inside.

For the first time since Diaz helped him out of the abandoned warehouse, Kevin feels something other than dread. As soon as the door opens, Cheddar is upon him, yipping and frantically wagging his little stump of a tail and Kevin gets down on one knee and simply pets his dog.

Cheddar, completely ecstatic, hops up and starts licking Kevin’s face. While Kevin is struggling to fight off his affections, he finds himself smiling despite everything, his fingers combing through Cheddar’s soft fur.

“I missed you too,” he tells the dog, even as Cheddar shoves his wet, cold nose into his face, the Corgi’s pink tongue darting out for another onslaught. “That’s enough now,” Kevin says sternly. When he glances up, he sees that Raymond is offering him a hand to help him get to his feet, a rare look of open tenderness on his face.

“I’m afraid your prolonged absence made him act out again,” Raymond says, pulling Kevin up, his grip strong and sure. “He misses you so much, he completely forgets how to conduct himself.”

“What has he destroyed this time?” Kevin asks as they walk into the house.

“Last week, Carla left the door to the dressing room open. He got into one of your drawers and chewed up four ties. I’m sorry, they were unsalvageable.”

Kevin tries to recall which ties might have been on top in the drawer when he left nine weeks ago and winces.

“The one Martin gave me for Christmas last year?”

Raymond’s apologetic expression confirms his suspicion before he even speaks. “I’m afraid so. I called your brother hoping he could tell me where I might find a replacement, but he told me the boutique has since gone out of business. I tried to track down the owner, but it seems he has left the country.”

It is touching that Raymond would go to such lengths for him. Kevin puts his hand on Raymond’s arm as he continues, “Perhaps I could—”

“It’s alright, dear,” Kevin interrupts gently, “I’m sure my brother can afford to buy me another tie at some point. He is a dentist after all.”

“You were so fond of that one though.”

“It was just a tie.”

The house, Kevin finds, looks the way he left it. Unlike the time he returned from France. It seems Cheddar alone is incapable of wreaking much havoc without the assistance of Raymond’s squad. Still, Kevin is frustrated with his dog, who is trailing him into the living-room, behind still wagging. When Raymond was in Florida for six months, Cheddar was apathetic with grief, sleeping the days away, refusing treats and any attempts to coax him into playing with his toys, yet whenever Kevin is away, he turns into a furious hellhound bent on destruction. He wonders what this says about his and Raymond’s respective roles in their marriage, then decides there are more pressing matters at hand. “Would you excuse me, please? I desperately need to shower and dispose of these clothes.”

Raymond nods. “Of course. In the meantime, would you like me to prepare dinner? Or would you prefer I order something?”

The mere thought of putting food in his mouth makes Kevin nauseous.

“Actually, I’m not at all hungry right now. Today’s events have left me exhausted; I think I will go straight to bed as soon as I’m done in the bathroom, if you don’t mind.”

“Are you certain?” To Kevin’s surprise, Raymond reaches for him, one hand gently cupping the side of his neck. “I could make you a peanut butter and jelly sandwich at least.”

“I think I’ve had my share of those over the last few weeks, Raymond,” Kevin says, his tone sharper than he intended. To soften it, he adds, “But thank you.”

“I’m sorry you had to go through this,” Raymond says, a tortured look on his face now, as his other hand comes up to caress Kevin’s bruised cheek and he leans in for a kiss. Startled, Kevin turns his head at the last second. His husband’s lips press against the uninjured side of his face.

When Raymond withdraws, he looks hurt.

“You are still angry with me,” he says.

“I am exhausted,” Kevin replies. In truth, the thought of Raymond kissing him now, before he has had time to brush his teeth and wash his face, is horrifying. “Please excuse me.” With that, he slips away to the bathroom.

***

Kevin brushes his teeth furiously, again and again until the water he spits out runs pink with blood. He feels disgusting. The horrible pervert clothes are taken off, folded and put into a plastic garbage bag and still he does not feel like himself. Kevin takes a long shower, turning the heat up to scalding until the entire room is fogged up – this way he won’t have to face himself in the mirror – and his skin turns lobster-red.

Not too careful examination reveals that one side of his body is badly bruised. He does not remember how he acquired those injuries; he must have sustained them while he was unconscious. Murphy and his henchman probably threw him around like a ragdoll. There is a bump on the back of his head – the EMTs reassured him that he would not need stitches – it is tender to the touch.

He steps out of the shower naked, doesn’t meet his own eyes in the fogged-up mirror and brushes his teeth one more time. The toothpaste burns his mouth.

“Kevin, are you still in the bathroom?” comes Raymond’s voice, muffled by the door. 

“Yes,” he replies, irritated despite himself. He can’t have been in here for more than a couple of minutes, doesn’t his husband have anything better to do than to ask him inane questions? It is obvious that he is in the bathroom, up until a few seconds ago, the shower was still running.

He blinks. In the mirror, his reflection is weeping condensation. All of a sudden, he feels very cold, his body icy from the soles of his feet to the tips of his ears.

“Kevin,” comes Raymond’s voice again – so close, he must be standing directly in front of the door – “is everything alright?”

“Yes,” Kevin says, feeling faint. He looks around for his underwear and pajamas only to realize that he has forgotten to bring a change of clothes. Frustrated with himself and the situation, Kevin grabs a towel and wraps it around his hips. There is a click from the door as the handle moves – it’s Raymond trying to come inside – Kevin, however, in his desperate need to be alone, locked it.

He unlocks it now, after sucking in a steadying breath. His hand is still on the key when Raymond pulls the door open.

“You said you were not injured,” is the first thing out of Raymond’s mouth when he sees Kevin, his eyes tracing the large hematoma running from his shoulder to his hip, where the towel covers the way it extends down his thigh.

“It’s just a bruise, Raymond,” Kevin says, feeling strangely exposed and self-conscious. It has been more than nine weeks since his husband has last seen him in any state of undress. He slips past Raymond and Cheddar, who has also appeared in the doorway, wagging his behind, Mister Hootsworth in his mouth.

Unnecessarily, husband and dog follow him into the dressing room, watching him as he goes through the closet to look for his preferred pajamas and underwear. It takes him a few seconds to remember that quite a few of his belongings are still in a suitcase in the safe house. In the end, Kevin has no choice but to settle for a pair of flannel pajamas he hates – they were a present from his mother and even Cheddar had better taste than to touch them during his Paris rampage.

“You didn’t apply vitamin k cream to your injuries while you were in the bathroom, did you?”

Kevin bristles at the hint of criticism he believes to detect in Raymond’s voice. “No.”

“Then why don’t I go get it now?”

“There really is no need to make a fuss,” Kevin calls after him, though he is grateful for the moment of privacy in which he can take off the towel and put on his underwear and pajama bottoms before his husband returns with the ointment.

He is under the covers by the time Raymond appears brandishing the tube. Kevin closes his eyes quickly, his arm wrapped around Cheddar, who is normally not allowed on the bed. Raymond releases the softest of sighs. Kevin can feel his gaze on him. His husband’s footsteps are heavy as they approach the bed. Cheddar curls into a tight ball, tucking his nose under his haunches.

Kevin knows he is being childish and ridiculous, but Raymond does not call his bluff.

After a beat, he moves away, leaving Kevin to drift off into a deep and mercifully dreamless sleep.

***

Movement wakes Kevin. He cracks one eye open and sees his husband slip out of bed in the grey pre-dawn light. Raymond is – as always – graceful and quiet. Kevin listens to the familiar thump of his bare feet hitting the floor, the rustle of his clothes, his soft, regular breathing.

This is routine, soothing predictability. Raymond will walk over to the window and check the barometer, then he will go to the bathroom, brush his teeth, shower and shave, then to the dressing room to retrieve and put on his uniform.

Raymond unbuttons his pajama top as he walks. What little light seeps in through the window clings to him, casting his shadow over the bed.

He will stand by the window for thirty seconds. Sometimes, on mornings like this, Kevin will follow him silently while his back is turned. He will put his arms around Raymond’s waist and stoop to put his chin on his shoulder and Ray will tell him the temperature, air pressure and humidity.

Kevin imagines himself lifting the covers, getting out of bed, as always failing to imitate Raymond’s silent grace. He pictures himself leaning into Raymond’s space, putting some of his weight on his husband’s shoulders as his arms circle Ray’s waist.

Kevin always thought he could tell Raymond anything, and yet here the imagine distorts, freezes suddenly like that one awful movie Peralta made him watch – _Sorry, sorry, there was an incident where I spilled soda on the DVD a couple of years ago_. _Now it always kind of gets stuck on the part where the dead daughter appears for no reason._

He cannot tell Raymond what happened. It is simply too mortifying. He can’t bear thinking about it. Verbalizing it is unfathomable. Inside Kevin, everything grinds to a halt and Raymond moves on from the window.

***

The next morning, Kevin goes back to work.

As expected, Wesley makes a few snide remarks about his bruises but otherwise Kevin is met mostly with friendly concern. However, there is a pamphlet for a domestic violence helpline waiting for him in his inbox when he returns from the library.

Just as he steps outside his office to pin the pamphlet to one of the announcement boards in the hallway – as disposing of it seems disrespectful to the people providing the service and the service itself, which is much needed, just not by him– his phone vibrates, alerting him of a new text message.

_Dear Kevin,_

_Where are you?_

_Sincerely, Raymond Holt, your husband._

Kevin frowns at the screen, specifically at the unneeded clarification _your husband,_ a clear indication that Raymond is upset with him, before replying:

_Dear Raymond,_

_As today is Tuesday, I am at work. I will be home in approximately forty minutes._

_Sincerely, Kevin Cozner, your husband._

He deletes the last eleven characters, then retypes them – you reap what you sow – and hits send.

A mere two seconds later, three dots appear, bouncing jauntily in their small bubble. Raymond has read his message and is crafting a reply. Kevin feels his shoulders tense as he watches. He hates it when they fight; there is nothing he hates more, nothing that makes him more miserable than being in disagreement with his husband.

He scrolls up. There is another text message from Raymond, sent on the day he was taken to the safe house. He only glimpsed it the last time he checked his phone before his husband had confiscated the device for safety reasons.

Kevin reads it now, weeks after the fact.

_Kevin_

_go to the archives lock the door behind your. do not go to your office do not open the door until my squad arrives. I love you_

_Raymond_

Kevin has no doubt that this the single most chaotic message Raymond has ever written in his entire life. The missing punctuation, capitalization and the typo – your instead of you – his husband must have been beside himself when he sent this. _I love you_ Somehow, the lack of a period at the end of the sentence makes it look unhinged to Kevin _._

At the bottom of the screen, the bubble with its three bouncing occupants has disappeared. There is no new message from Raymond.

***

Raymond is in the kitchen when Kevin comes home. A bag of groceries sits accusingly on the counter in front of his husband, who looks up and studies Kevin with what Kevin secretly refers to as his detective gaze.

“I trust you had a productive day,” Kevin says. “You’re home early.”

“Without Peralta around there are fewer shenanigans diverting my attention from my actual work.” There is no heat in the statement, however, if anything, Raymond sounds tired.

“I see.” Without meaning to, Kevin measures the distance between them with his eyes, three arm lengths. He does not think about Jake at all.

“How was work?” Raymond asks.

Kevin deliberately moves closer and reaches for the bag on the counter to peek inside. _Papa’s got a brand-new bag,_ he thinks, then wonders what Raymond would do if he said it aloud, probably take him to the nearest psychiatric hospital.

“Fine,” he replies, “Would you like me to cook dinner for you?”

Raymond frowns at him. “What about you?”

“I had a sandwich at the university.” This is a half-truth. Kevin had two bites of a sandwich before disposing of it. He has no appetite.

Roused from his post-walk afternoon nap by the word dinner, Cheddar joins them in the kitchen, directing his pleading gaze at Kevin, who has begun to put the groceries away.

“In that case I will make myself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.”

Kevin pauses, weighing a bag of rice in his hand. “You should eat a proper meal.”

“Why? You didn’t.”

It is not hostile, exactly, this remark, but it stings nonetheless. Kevin ducks his head, places the rice inside the cabinet and nods.

“I see. Well, it is your choice. Please excuse me, I have work to do.” He strides out of the room; he can do that now, no longer reduced to dragging his body across the malodorous carpet in that house, feeling like a snake trying to shed its old skin. Raymond calls his name, but if a classics teacher knows one thing it is that one must never turn around to look back.

***

The days pass in an invariable pattern. Kevin will rise early and take Cheddar for a long morning walk, long enough that Raymond has left for work by the time they return. Then Kevin will go to university, where he will remain until late evening. When he returns, Raymond is there, sometimes with dinner already prepared– he is a wonderful chef if he applies himself, which he does now, almost every night – sometimes with takeout from one of their favorite places.

Kevin can barely look at his husband. He cannot stand this. Raymond’s growing desperation to appease him is making him feel like he is some kind of vengeful god, Artemis refusing Agamemnon the winds, demanding sacrifice.

On day six, stiff after hours of research at the library, Kevin comes home to Raymond and Cheddar, both of them seated on the couch in the living-room, both of them obviously waiting for him. Raymond has already sent him a text message, of course, to which Kevin had replied with an accurate estimate of his arrival. Still, his husband greets him with a stony expression, one Kevin knows is meant to hide his frustration.

“Hello, Raymond, Cheddar,” he wants to say, but his throat closes up, chest tight with guilt. What comes out instead is a whispered, “I can’t do this anymore. I’m sorry.”

Eyes widening, Raymond rises from the couch. Kevin turns away quickly and all but runs up the stairs. The suitcase Raymond retrieved from the safe house is still exactly where he left it days ago – sitting in a corner of the dressing room, untouched by Kevin, who has not been able to bring himself to unpack it.

Now it is obvious why.

He approaches it, slowly, the sound of Raymond’s heavy footsteps on the stairs matching the pace of Kevin’s frantic heart.

When Kevin turns around with the suitcase, Raymond is in the doorway, a stricken look on his face.

“You’re leaving,” he says, voice wavering between statement and question.

Kevin nods. “I’m sorry.” His fingers clench around the handle of the suitcase. It has wheels, he could set it down, but he doesn’t. The weight pulling on him is the only thing that feels appropriate.

“Kevin, please, what do you want me to do?” Raymond gestures, open palms extending towards Kevin. It is a heartbreaking surrender. “Just tell me.”

He wants to, but he can’t. “Take care of Cheddar for me, please,” Kevin says and pushes past his husband.

***

In his car, after, Kevin does not shed a tear. He breathes carefully in and out, as if each breath he draws is his first, as if he has to relearn inhalation and exhalation.

He does not look up at the house, at the light coming from the windows, at the front door where Raymond might stand.

He does not think of his husband’s fingertips brushing his arm as he slipped out of his grasp, or the question following him down the hallway.

“What did they do to you, Kevin?”

Nothing.


End file.
